


Off Come the Kid Gloves

by buttercups3



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: LJ 60 prompts in 60 days, Language, Prompt: gloves, Verbal Sparring, post-torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-22
Updated: 2013-09-22
Packaged: 2017-12-27 08:27:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/976630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttercups3/pseuds/buttercups3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After rescuing Miles from torture-happy Texas tribesmen, Aaron halfheartedly attempts to bond with a Miles that looks more pulp than human. Maybe Aaron will kill Miles with his own swords, or maybe Aaron will silkscreen Miles' face on his ass. Either way, these two are here to spar. (Slight spoilers for season 2.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Off Come the Kid Gloves

**Author's Note:**

> Based very loosely off a description of season 2 episode 3, which reads: “Rachel makes a valiant attempt to rescue Miles." Further, per season 2 spoilers, Aaron’s got a girlfriend in Rachel’s hometown of Willoughby, Texas, and Rachel and Miles are bumping uglies.
> 
> Warning: torture trigger.

Aaron had witnessed Sebastian Monroe plundering the depths of human cruelty, coming up for air something akin to Satan himself. Yes, Aaron had thought he’d seen it all by now, but no. This is worse. Even dictators’ scrawls apparently hit the edge of the page, hemmed in by some notion of legitimacy. Or maybe Monroe simply wasn’t imaginative enough to color outside of the lines.

Whatever Monroe lacks Texas tribesmen earn the gold star in, because Rachel and Aaron have pried from these vigilantes a gutted animal (who almost passes for Miles Matheson) and dragged him two miles to a cave. In sick fascination, Aaron has been slowly cataloging what limitless torture looks like carved into human flesh. Clad only in pants so filthy they look like mud sewn to skin, Miles peers out of one scarlet eye, the other a swollen, amorphous blob. He reeks of urine and BO, and his chest is puckered with burns. Too weak from hunger and being strung up by the ankles, this pathetic infantile Miles can’t yet walk. Rachel tried feeding him an hour ago, and he’s been dry heaving on all fours ever since.

Rachel hasn't exactly been mentally sound since the Tower; in a non-Blackout world she'd have probably been straight-jacketed and flung in a rubber room. But she appears to be taking this well enough, almost as if _tortured_ is the normal human state, and it’s Aaron who’s out of place. In between Miles’ strangled retching, Rachel serenely forces a canteen of water betwixt his shredded lips. If Aaron’s honest, Miles is revolting. Good thing those two are in love or…whatever they are.

Aaron’s sitting cross-legged at the cave entrance, gripping Miles’s swords tighter than necessary. (Whether he’s more afraid of the monsters outside or the ones behind him is anyone’s guess). Something about the whole scenario reminds Aaron of grade school, during which at recess time – in between hair-raising escapes from book-scattering bullies and wetting his underoos, so determined was he to avoid the black-seat potties – he still found time to play pirates with his best (only) friend, Charles. Charles had bucked teeth and spat a little when he lisped, but he didn’t visibly laugh when Aaron came back from the nurse’s office in a change of pants.

Rachel’s black leather, knee-high boots crowd out Aaron’s reconnaissance of the horizon (reconnaissance his ass – he’s been internally debating whether his Chewbacca or Aquaman underoos better conveyed his childhood disposition for the better part of five minutes). He slowly shifts his gaze to the furrowed dark-blonde brow hovering menacingly above.

“Yes, Rachel?” he asks innocently. Subsequently, he vetoes nose-breathing; Rachel stinks of Miles’ barf.

“I’ve got to find us a wagon. I don’t think he’ll regain enough strength to make it back to Willoughby, and we can’t drag him 10 miles. He’ll die.” Rachel: practical, perfectly convinced of herself as always.

“I’m not gonna die,” Miles furiously hacks up words from behind them. He’s more likely mad at his own dysfunctional body than at Rachel and Aaron, but still, _ungrateful bastard. A thank you would be nice._

Rachel doesn’t even shift her eyes at Miles’ voice. Her fingers curl around her hips, as she continues to fix Aaron with an electric stare that fills him with dread.

“You stay here and watch him.”

 _Yep, there it is._ “No Rachel, you stay. We’ve already established I’m shit at self-defense.”

“We’ve also established that I’m faster than you and the superior thief. Just don’t let him die, Aaron.” Her voice is awfully chilly, like if she comes back to find Miles is toast, she’ll take one of his swords and use it for an Aaron-spit.

It’s moments like these where Aaron’s pretty sure his friendship with Rachel is one-sided. He has a sudden flash to all those times Rachel baked cookies in Sylvania and fixed his eager hand with an eye-slap that seemed to say, _Are you sure you should be eating those, fat ass?_ But fuck if he wouldn’t give his right nut for one of those molasses cookies. It was worth the look every time. He almost brings them up now, but she’s already gone. His mouth waters; the sun is immobilized at high noon. Goddamn he’s bored.

Not that Aaron is eager to have his reverie broken by his filthy companion, who is now dragging himself across the cave floor like a dying manatee and slumping against the rock wall. Just what Aaron needs – a front row smell-o-vision ticket to the fecal, piss-perfumed Miles. Poor guy's chest is heaving like he’s run a marathon. Aaron had thought to give Miles his jacket (bulky and absurd on the slim frame), but it’s fallen open so that one of Miles’ ravaged nipples peeps luridly out. Jesus Christ, what did the tribesmen _do_ to him? Tickle torture him with a candle?

Miles rasps, “Gimme my swords.” He extends a blackened hand that is missing two fingernails – the rest encrusted with brownish scabs.

“What? No, Miles. You crazy? You can’t even stand.”

“I could fight bettern’ you dead.”

Aaron rolls his eyes. “Right. I’m sure your corpse would suck less at swordfighting than me. You want some more water? You look like someone fed you through a meat grinder, chewed you up and spat you out. I won’t even go into what you smell like.”

“Huh huh huh,” Miles half wheezes, half cackles. “Afraid of me, Aaron?”

“What? No.”

“You’re recoiling.” Miles prods Aaron’s shoulder with the nail-less index finger.

Hell yes, Aaron is scared of him. Miles is making the Blackout look like the Zombie Apocalypse.  

“Stop, Miles. You’re even more childish when you’ve been tortured for 50 hours straight. What the hell did they do to you in there anyway?”

Miles’ mouth tries for a grin as he collapses further into himself, his functioning eye drifting closed. God knows if there’s even an eyeball in the other socket. Hell if Aaron’s going to be the one to check.

“Why you wanna know?” Miles croaks.

“I don’t know. Boredom? Schadenfreude?” Aaron shrugs. He knows it’s not nice, but even pathetic Miles sucks. The kid gloves have long since come off.

“The shit does that mean?” The bloody bottom lip pouts.

“Miles, did you _really_ not go to college?”

“Fuck you, Aaron. I went into the military to save your Cheeto-munching, Mountain Dew-guzzling ass. What the hell is Schadenfucker?”

“Experiencing pleasure at someone else’s misery.”

“You like seeing me in pain?” Miles’ lip curls again, but the functioning eye has fixed its equally black pupil and iris on Aaron.

“No, Miles. But you’re pissing me off. Why you gotta be such a dick all the time?”

“Because, _Aaron_ : every single goddamn person in my life I care about dies or takes off except for you. How the fucking fuck did I end up married to my brother’s lap dog?” Each word is extracted with extreme difficulty from the wheezing, heaving mass of chest.

For a split second, Aaron is irate. He literally risked his life to save Miles, and this is the thanks he gets? And then it dawns on him: Miles _is_ thanking him for being loyal, dependable. _Yeah, that’s what this is: Miles thanking you._ Aaron's belly laugh reverberates in the cave.

“Wasso funny?”

“You, Miles. You’re welcome.”

Miles cocks an eyebrow grumpily but almost imperceptibly nods. He nods, for Christ’s sakes. For a fleeting moment, Aaron is positively ebullient that he’s figured this cocksure asshole out.

“Got any whiskey?” Miles mumbles after a spell.

“Is it wise to drink in your condition?” Aaron lobs back, shifting with a clink of the swords.

“Look at me. I’m a piece of meat – you said so yourself. What’s it gonna do to me?”

“I stopped drinking, Miles. Got nothing but water on me.”

“Seriously? Why – that religious chick in Willoughby?”

 _He gets under your skin because you let him._ “Actually…because of Nora.”

“What?” There’s a sharp edge to Miles’ phlegmy voice now. They haven’t so much as mentioned her name to each other since the Tower. Aaron knows how deep Miles and Nora’s bond was – camaraderie edging somewhere on the scale toward Monroe.

“Nora said she stopped drinking to see things more clearly. It gave her an edge over her enemies.”

“And how’s that worked out for _you_?”

Aaron can’t tell if Miles is being sarcastic. “Overall? Well. She said something else, if you’re interested.”

Miles’ jutted chin suggests distinct resentment that Nora would have shared anything private with Aaron, but since Miles doesn’t object, Aaron continues.

“She said she wished _you’d_ stop. Said you lose your center when you drink – become more like Monroe.”

Miles vaguely shrugs. “What the hell do you know about Monroe?”

“Nothing. But Nora did. And hers is a way kinder assessment of your drinking than I have. You know what I think? I think booze makes you stupid and careless, and the first person it hurts is Charlie.” Smug now. _En garde, Miles._

Miles sticks out his lip like he’s almost impressed. “Brave words. You know, I could kill you with those swords, and nobody would care. Sure, Rachel might be a little pissed, but she’d load me in her wagon anyway and take me home. It’s not _you_ she cares about.”

And that’s Miles Matheson. Just when the tiniest bud of hope blooms that you could like him, he lays a heap of shit at your feet.

“Jealous?”

“Of you? No.” Miles laughs the word _no_.

“I did spend all those weeks with Rachel – just the two of us on the Plains. Anything could have happened. _I’m_ her intellectual equal.” Ridiculous, juvenile. Aaron’s heart is barely in it.

“Yeah right. Rachel told me about your wife, Aaron. What was it, Priscilla? How you ditched her like a coward, and she made a new family without you. So no. I’m not worried that you fucked Rachel on the Plains. I _am_ surprised she didn’t leave you behind in some shithole in the middle of nowhere.”

“She tried,” Aaron shrugs, while he thinks on Miles’ deeply personal attack. Letting Miles get to you just eggs him on. Aaron’s also pretty fucking sore that Rachel told Miles the secret about his wife, but he supposes Rachel and Miles are sleeping together and nothing is off limits. “Yeah, I fucked up my marriage pretty badly. But at least I didn’t fuck up someone else’s.”

There’s fire in the dark center of that bloodshot eye now, and Aaron is a bit concerned Miles _will_ try for the kill. _Clink_ go the swords again as Aaron shifts them unconsciously. Miles is probably more likely to hurt himself than Aaron at the moment. Probably.

Aaron suddenly prefers arguing to the threatening silence, so he follows up, “Did Ben know you and Rachel had an affair?”

“What, we’re sharing now?”

Aaron observes a sudden strain in Miles’ face like he’s really in agony. Aaron unconsciously moves toward Miles when the grizzled hand flies up in deflection.

“I’ve gotta take a piss. And unless you plan on holding my dick for me, I’m gonna have to figure this out myself.”

“Jesus, Miles, you can’t even walk. Let me at least help you to the edge of the rock.”

Miles looks, feels, and smells like a hobo. Aaron lifts him up by his armpits, and drags Miles, wincing and grinding his teeth. Aaron’s trying to look away as Miles fumbles with his fly, lying on his side, but it’s taking ages. For a second, Aaron _does_ worry he’s going to have to take out the man’s dick for him, but Miles triumphs (as always) and pisses. He looks a bit chastened, though, as Aaron heaps him back against the wall.

It’s probably five minutes before Miles says with a rattling sigh, “Yeah, Ben knew. He wasn’t exactly an idiot.”

 _So they’re back on this._ “Did he forgive you?”

“Ben…forgave everyone eventually, including himself. Pretty remarkable when you think about it.”

“You miss him?”

Miles’s sharp look conveys, _Seriously?_ “Of course, I fucking miss him. He was my brother,” but his voice actually cracks on the familiar word.

“Me too. He was my best friend.”

“That why you went with Charlie?”

“Yeah, and…I can’t really explain it – I hate kids – but Charlie and Danny have – _had_ – this effect on people…on me.”

“Know what you mean. Charlie especially – she’s something else. Even when she was little. So you and your wife never wanted kids? Before?”

“Uh, well, Priscilla did, and I kept putting her off until I didn’t have to anymore. You?”

Both eyes are closed again, and Aaron isn’t quite sure what to make of this conversation – how it’s migrated infinitesimally toward the friendly. Miles’ answer really shocks him. “I _did_. Once. Wanted a wife, kids, the house with the yard.”

Aaron laughs he’s so startled by the revelation.

“What? I’m serious. Before the wars. Before I enlisted. I asked a woman to marry me.”

“And she said _yes_?” This is news.

“Yeah, she said _yes_ , asshole. And then she said _no_ , once I left for Basic. And then everything changed anyway in Iraq. Stopped fooling myself that I’d want to bring a child into this shit world. Humans – all they want to do is survive. When you strip everything else away – we’re pure biology. No rules, no limits, there’s nothing we won’t do to each other, to the world around us. I think, if I had kids, I’d be _afraid_ of them.”

The only other time Miles has mentioned fear to Aaron’s knowledge is Strausser – so this is something. “That’s a pretty bleak outlook, Miles. But look at Charlie. Look at what she’s been through. She’s still good, and you obviously love her.”

“She’s not like anyone I’ve ever known.”

“So she should give you hope.”

“Huh, Aaron. I thought you’d have figured this out with your gaudy degrees and all. I _have_ hope – I don’t need Charlie for that. Optimism is my biggest fucking problem.”

“What?” 

“I _fix_ things. Yeah, I’m awesome at it if you haven’t noticed. I fixed the fucking Twin Towers by going to Iraq – a shit-ton of sense that made. I fixed the fucking anarchy of the greater Northeast by forming the Monroe Militia. And what else? Oh yeah, I fixed Rachel. She’s doing great; can’t you tell? She hasn’t been comatose in at least a week. Though me getting the snot whipped out of me may have startled her a bit. We’ll see if she comes back with that wagon.” Miles is talking game, but on the last bit his brow furrows in evident concern.

“Hm, I don’t know if I’ve noticed all that, but I have used my PhDs to deduce that you have a penchant for drama and possess the world’s most super-inflated ego,” Aaron offers, thinking: _If Rachel doesn’t come back, I am not fucking dragging this dickwad back to town. He’s going to have to crawl for it._

“Well, I guess we have those attributes in common. Maybe that’s why Ben wanted to be your pal in the first place – missed his little brother’s assholery.”

“Nah, he didn’t miss you.”

Miles cackles drily. “Yeah, probably not.” Miles points the skeleton finger again, but this time away from Aaron. “Rachel.” And then he does something that really fucking impresses Aaron: he puts both hands on the rockwall and gingerly, in painstaking slow motion, rises until he’s fully erect. It's like man evolving from ape right before Aaron's eyes.

“Feeling better, Miles?” Rachel inquires curtly as she strides up, after fastening the horses to a tree. Miles' dirty chestnut head nods once.

Aaron’s mouth falls open, gazing from one Matheson to the other. Rachel may irk him, and he may genuinely loathe Miles, but they both impress the hell out of him. Like goddamn superheroes. Someone should put _them_ on his underwear.


End file.
